


When I'm On My Knees, I'll Still Believe

by goldenkraken



Series: Droughtjoy2017 [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Dissociation, Droughtjoy 2017, Drunkenness, Enemies to Friends, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I attempted to fix... so many things oh god, M/M, Panic Attacks, Theon's still not completely healed from the whole 'Reek' thing, Trauma, can be read as shippy or platonic, droughtjoy2017, set during jon and theon's reunion and the days that follow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 16:17:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11855214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenkraken/pseuds/goldenkraken
Summary: I tried to fix a few things here, namely Theon finding about Ramsay, Jon asking Theon about the betrayal, and Theon saying the 'I should've died with him' line.Theon has returned to Dragonstone, but Jon's presence proves to be a challenge. Despite still being taunted by memories of Ramsay Bolton, Theon hopes to try and appear as strong as his former self in front of Jon. It doesn't work. Things only worsen when Jon has the misfortune of causing and witnessing one of Theon's panic attacks, leaving the pair at an awkward standstill.Jon wants answers. Theon wants to sleep. Lucky for them, alcohol makes things more bearable.





	When I'm On My Knees, I'll Still Believe

**Author's Note:**

> Mumford and Sons - Holland Road is a REALLY good song for Theon & Jon. Particularly in regard to this fic. 
> 
> Other really good Jon/Theon songs I'd recommend are:  
> Strays Don't Sleep - For Blue Skies

He could still feel Jon’s hands on him even after they had left the beach and returned to the castle of Dragonstone.

Neither had said a word to each other; Jon had simply sauntered off towards the castle, all haughty silence and angry pouting. The older man with him – they hadn’t been introduced but with the way that the man carried himself, Theon could tell that he was of some importance – seemed as though he had wanted to speak, but after fixing Theon with an odd look, he and the others with him had followed their leader back to Dragonstone. Theon and the Ironborn had simply been left on the beach, unimportant and of little consequence to anyone now that Yara wasn’t the one leading them. Still, Theon chose not to linger and instead followed Jon and the others back to the castle without another word.

It felt strange to be here without his sister. He could not remember the last time that he had been in charge of anything or anyone, though he knew that there had once been a time where he had called himself Prince. Those memories were faint and faded; old and distant. They had been buried so deeply during his time with Ramsay Bolton, that sometimes Theon could hardly distinguish between a memory and a dream. Everything from that time, the time before Ramsay had created him and told him his name, had become fuzzy and bleak; simply fragments lost in the darkness, mere shadows filled with doubt. He was getting better at remembering (Ramsay had always taught him the importance of remembering things – _you have to remember your name_ ) and with each passing day since his escape, his mind was becoming stronger and clearer, though some days were harder than others and the road to recovery was a long one.

Since the night of Euron’s attack, it seemed that Ramsay had been filling his thoughts more and more frequently.

Absently, Theon picked at the skin of one of his remaining fingers. Part of him longed for Ramsay to return and strap him to the cross again. To flay him and punish him and break him for abandoning his sister, letting down his crew, and losing Daenerys her allies. Another part of him just wanted to go and get Yara back by any means necessary, but without Daenerys’ support, the chances of that seemed remarkably slim. No one respected him here, and he couldn’t blame them either. How could anyone respect a cowering, limping, eunuch that couldn’t even protect his own sister? Mostly he just wanted some reprieve from the endless stream of harsh words and hateful looks that everyone kept giving him.

Currently, he sat in what would once have been the castle’s dining hall. It was much smaller than the one at Winterfell and Theon couldn’t be sure that this room had always been intended as a dining hall at all, but it had large tables and a fair amount of candles to light the darkness. There was no one here to bother him and Theon didn’t really have anywhere else to be, so for now he simply sat alone and contemplated how he was going to approach Daenerys when she returned. The thought of telling her about his failings did worry him somewhat, as she would surely wish to punish him for his incompetence, but saving Yara was his biggest priority right now. If he had to risk the ire of Daenerys Stormborn, First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, then so be it – Yara’s safety and rescue were paramount.

Some empty parchment lay sprawled out on the heavy table in front of him. Originally, Theon had intended to try writing his thoughts down so that he could prepare something coherent to say, but he had also wanted to send a raven to Sansa. They had not communicated since their separation from Ramsay, but now that he knew she was alive and safe, he found himself longing to hear from her. It didn’t have to be anything in particular. He just longed to speak to someone who wouldn’t yell at him, hit him or insult him. Sansa had been sweet and kind, and he was relieved to know that she had found her way to Jon.

There was also the matter of Ramsay Bolton. Jon was King in the North now and he had been sporting Stark clothing when Theon met him on the beach. The Boltons’ control over Winterfell must have been lost and if Theon thought hard enough, he could recall hearing about a battle for the North that had taken place not too long ago. Somewhere along the way he had heard that Ramsay had been slain during this battle, but Theon considered himself an intelligent man and he knew that such a thing could not have happened. A battle? Yes, that made sense. Jon becoming King in the North? Well of course, it was almost inevitable. However, Ramsay Bolton being slain by mortals, and dying a mortal’s death? No, such a thing was utterly absurd. These people didn’t know Ramsay the way that Theon did; that man was beyond powerful and nobody could touch him.

Theon picked at the skin of his fingers again as he mulled over what to write on the paper before him. Since being subject to regular flaying, skin-picking had become a particularly bad habit of his. It was often subconscious and he rarely realised he was doing it until spots of scarlet began to form against the pale canvas of his skin, and the whites of his nails turned an ugly brownish red.  

He heard the sound of footsteps approaching but paid them no mind. There were a lot of people at Dragonstone currently, and he had seen several pass through the dining hall since his arrival. They were never people that he knew, though he was almost thankful for that. If he had to sit through another one of Tyrion’s lectures or barrages of insults, he wasn’t sure he would be able to keep his mouth shut.

Theon leaned forward in his chair, blue eyes fixed upon the parchment as the footsteps got closer. He quickly reached for the quill in an attempt to look as though he was busy, not wanting to awkwardly have to talk to anybody, and he brought the ink to the paper in one swift movement. Soft voices accompanied the footsteps but Theon paid them no mind, instead focusing on bringing some words to the paper.

_Dear,_

Dear who?

Before he could write anything else, the footsteps reached the door and immediately the talking stopped. Theon tensed slightly then looked over, feeling his heart sink when he saw the figures in the doorway.

Jon Snow, and the older man who had been with him at the beach. Jon’s smile faded from his face as he locked eyes with Theon while the man beside him glanced between them both.

“Jon,” Theon said curtly, offering a short nod of acknowledgement as a greeting. The skin around his neck prickled as he recalled their earlier encounter on the beach; Jon had grown even stronger during their time apart, and he was certain that the young king would be more than capable of breaking his neck if the desire took him.

Regardless, Theon sat up a little straighter and lowered the quill. His bright blue eyes remained trained on the man in the doorway; he didn’t flinch or cower or shrink himself down. Not in front of Jon.

“Turncloak,” Jon replied stiffly, that familiar anger back in his deep brown eyes. “What are you doing here?”

A time long ago, in the walls of a castle that was coated in snow, a boy that called himself Prince may have turned to the boy that he called Bastard and he may have laughed indignantly at the implications of a question like that. ‘ _Do I need your permission to be here?’_ he might have said, had he still been that same boy, ‘ _I am the Prince of the Iron Islands; I can go wherever I like, Bastard._ ’ Jon might have pulled a face in response to the comment, to which the Greyjoy Prince may have responded with, ‘ _There, there, don’t look so down. It’s not your fault that Queen Daenerys considers me more of an ally than you, is it?’_

Theon was not that boy any longer, and he doubted he would ever be that boy again. So instead of laughing or flashing that old smirk, he instead remained passive and said, “I just came here to write.”

“Can’t you go write in your chambers?”

There was a heartbeat of silence. A muscle in Theon’s jaw clenched and he glanced down at the paper in front of him for a moment. Was he really expected to get up and leave because the almighty King in the North declared it so? Was Jon Snow, his childhood rival, really trying to send him to his room like a parent disciplining a naughty child? Annoyance flowered within Theon’s chest but he knew better than to cause a fuss. Instead, he rose to his feet and began to gather up the quill and parchment, feeling two pairs of eyes on him as he did so.

“Is this really necessary, your Grace?” the older man asked quietly, his voice stiff as he addressed Jon.

“This is the man who betrayed my brother and cost my family our home. If it weren’t for him, the Boltons wouldn’t have taken Winterfell in the first place and Rickon would still be with us,” Jon spat in response, glowering at Theon as he spoke. “This Dragon Queen may be relying on your ships or whatever it is you think you can offer her, but make no mistake Theon. If it were up to me, you’d be gone by nightfall.”

Theon’s remaining teeth clenched together and he ducked his head. His gaze remained pointed at the ground as he hurried towards the door. The older man moved aside to grant him passage but Jon remained firmly planted in the way. Theon froze awkwardly and held the rolls of parchment a little more tightly as he hesitated in place. Their eyes met; deep, dark brown burning into soft, swirling blue. Theon was the first to drop his gaze and he remained silent as he slipped past Jon. Their chests brushed against each other as Theon moved through the doorway, and Jon continued to watch him until he was out of sight.

 

\---

 

When Daenerys finally returned with an injured Drogon, she decided to summon a war council. Theon had not been present for that; instead he had simply rested in his chambers. Daenerys had essentially ordered him to do so after also agreeing that she would aid him in his efforts to free Yara. It had been a remarkably long time since Theon had been allowed to simply rest for a while, and he found that the nap had done wonders for both his mind and his body. He had even been fortunate to have a calm, dreamless sleep that was free of watery eyes, and lips that resembled worms.

Theon remained curled beneath the soft furs on his bed, feeling utterly warm and comfortable. Part of him wanted to go back to sleep but the light from his window was fading and he knew that sleeping again would not be a good idea at all. He supposed that he should get up and seek out Daenerys or the Ironborn so that they could begin making arrangements for rescuing Yara, but it was hard to simply abandon such comfort when it had been so long since he had been allowed a luxury like this. His eyelids slipped shut and he let out a soft sigh of contentment. Five more minutes, and then he would return to his duties.

As he lay shrouded in the warmth and safety of the furs, his mind began to wander back to Jon and their encounters that day. It seemed strange to see him again after such a long time. While the physical changes were nothing to write home about, he was definitely not the green boy that he had been on the day that he left Winterfell. No, the man that Theon saw today was battle-worn and driven, though his eyes possessed a certain tiredness that Theon could almost emphasise with. He knew very little of Jon’s journey since joining the Nights Watch but whatever had happened, those events had taken a sulky, sullen boy and transformed him into a strong, capable man who carried himself with such purpose.

 _‘What must he think of me now?’_ Theon thought bitterly. ‘ _Have I even crossed his mind?_ ’

Would Jon feel smug after seeing how Theon had practically cowered in front of him on the beach? Would he have laughed to himself after seeing the way that he had been able to send Theon to his room earlier? Would Jon find it satisfying to see how his childhood rival was now a small, obedient shell of his former self, despised by all and cared for by none? Frustration began to burn in the young kraken’s chest the more that he thought about it. He hated that Jon had seen him in this state. To think – after all that had happened to him, he was now being pushed around by _Ned Stark’s bloody bastard_ and there was not a thing that he could do about it.

Still, after what he had done to Jon Snow’s family, he supposed he probably deserved this. He was lucky that Jon had been merciful enough to not kill him.

Heaving a sigh, Theon pushed himself into a sitting position and raked a hand through his dark hair. He supposed it would be best if he started to make arrangements for Yara’s rescue.

 

\---

 

The next time they encountered each other, Theon was sitting quietly on the sand as he watched the tide. The sun had faded a while ago, though it wasn’t quite night yet. He had been there for some time, simply watching the waves in silence with his arms hugging his knees to his chest as he looked out at the water. It was soothing for him. The ocean had always been a place of solace for Theon ever since he had been a young hostage boy who desperately sought after anything that would help him feel some sense of connection to his identity as a Greyjoy. Living in Winterfell meant that he rarely got chance to go near the sea, but whenever he did, he truly savoured those moments.

“You’re not with your men.”

Theon tensed as Jon spoke. He hadn’t even known that he was there.

 _‘They’re not my men, they’re Yara’s,’_ was what he wanted to say but when he opened his mouth, all that came out was, “No.”

Cautiously, Theon cast a look towards his childhood rival and saw that Jon wasn’t even looking at him. He was simply standing and squinting at the ships in the bay.

“I could see someone sitting over here but I didn’t realise it was _you_ until I got here. Stupid of me really; only a Greyjoy would come to brood alone by the sea.”

Theon’s heart continued to beat furiously inside of his chest, and his jaw became stiff. Was Jon going to tell him that he couldn’t even sit on the beach either? The thought annoyed him. This whole situation annoyed him. Why was Jon even out here anyway, especially when it wasn’t even daytime anymore? _‘I think it’s pretty rich for you of all people to make comments about someone brooding_ ,’ Theon might’ve said, had they still been the same people that they had been during those years at Winterfell. ‘ _If only Greyjoys can enjoy the sea at night, what brings you out here, anyway? Are you confused, Bastard? You’re a Snow, not a Pyke. I can’t blame you for wishing to be Ironborn, though_.’

Without saying a word, Theon pushed himself to his feet and brushed the sand from his clothing. He turned towards the castle, not daring to even glance in Jon’s direction, and began to walk.

“Wait,” Jon said gruffly, immediately causing Theon to halt.

Uncertain blue eyes roamed back to the young king, and Theon frowned somewhat. Jon watched him closely and took a step towards him; Theon ducked his head as he braced himself for some kind of attack.

No pain came.

Instead, something black and soft was shoved against his chest and Jon held it there until Theon sheepishly took it from him. It took a moment for him to realise that he was holding a pair of gloves.

“I presume these are yours? You left them on the table earlier,” Jon spoke drily, his expression stern and unreadable.

_Ah, so that’s where they went._

“Thank you,” Theon murmured as he proceeded to pull on the gloves as quickly as he could. He hated having his disfigured hands on display but he had removed the gloves so that he could pick at his skin when he was stressed earlier. He must’ve been in such a hurry to leave the room that he had forgotten them.

“Don’t thank me. I only returned them because I happened to run into you.”

“Sorry.”

The apology came so swiftly that Theon almost hated himself for it. Having Jon standing so close to him while radiating such hatred was stressful enough, but it was also intimidating. He didn’t like Jon seeing this side to him. When he first saw him earlier that day, he had hoped to seem at least somewhat like his former self, though it was obvious now that he was failing to do so. Knowing that his old rival could now witness him behaving like a kicked dog only furthered his self-hatred. Theon’s eyes remained downcast; he didn’t want to see whatever expression Jon was giving him, whether it was pity, anger, or smugness. He just wanted to leave. He began to turn towards the castle again but he could feel Jon’s judgemental gaze burning into his back and he tried to ignore the way it made his skin prickle.

“Turncloak.”

Theon’s eyes closed briefly and he exhaled through his nose. Couldn’t Jon just leave him alone for a second and let him return to the safety of his chambers in peace? Regaining his composure, Theon stopped walking and turned to look across at where Jon stood a few footsteps away. It was difficult to read his expression, as regardless of how he was feeling, Jon’s lips seemed to rest in a permanent pout. Those intensely sad eyes never helped either; he had always managed to look like a kicked puppy, ever since they were boys. It was different when he smiled, of course, but Theon had rarely witnessed those occasions.

“What is it?” Theon asked when he realised that Jon wasn’t going to speak first.

“Why did you do it?” Jon’s voice came out harsh and there was no masking the sheer resentment that his words carried. He wasn’t shouting but he didn’t need to; it still made Theon feel as if he had just been stabbed in the gut. Perhaps he should’ve been. “Why did you turn on us?”

_Us? You weren’t even there – you knew what we were facing but you remained on that fucking wall._

Now was not the time for anger, however. Jon was right to demand answers, especially given the context. Theon’s heart began to beat a little faster and his fingers twitched nervously as silence stretched between them. The guilt and shame coiled within his stomach like two fat snakes and he felt his cheeks burn beneath Jon’s scrutiny. The last time he had felt this raw and exposed, he had been standing before Ramsay Bolton.

‘ _Don’t think about him,’_ Theon thought in a panic. Ramsay was the last person he needed in his mind right now. His hands shook and his fingers twitched with the desire to pick, pick, pick at the ugly, disfigured patches of skin on his mangled hands. His thoughts died in his throat before they could leave his lips, and his mind was racing. His thoughts became jumbled as he tried to focus on forming a response, but now that Ramsay had crossed his thoughts, he couldn’t concentrate. Everything was spiralling.

“Oi! I asked you a question,” Jon snarled, marching forward and seizing Theon by the collar like he had before.

Theon flinched at the suddenness of it all, and he felt an immediate rush of panic as Jon grabbed hold of him. _No, no, no._ Theon was trembling and his breath came in short, rapid gasps. The last time he had been asked about betraying the Starks, it had been when he was strapped to that fucking cross with Ramsay hounding him into responding. _Ramsay, Ramsay, Ramsay_. Theon’s eyes fogged over as he stared at something in the middle distance, and Jon glowered at him in a strange mix of disgust and confusion. Dark brown eyes took in Theon’s quivering, glassy-eyed form and the irregular rise and fall of his chest. Jon had already seen his missing fingers, but this was something else entirely.

“What’s the matter with you?” Jon hissed incredulously, though there was almost a note of concern there too.

When Theon didn’t reply, Jon gave him a slight shake, and immediately those blue eyes snapped back to him, wide and full of fear. The motion caused a soft sound of discomfort (or was it dread?) to escape his shaking lips, though it may have been quiet enough to go unnoticed. Jon’s brow creased. This was not the same smirking, arrogant young man that he had grown up with. Not by a long shot.

“ _Theon!”_ Jon spat, resisting the urge to shake him again to try and make him respond.

“Not Theon – _Reek_ ,” Theon babbled quietly in response, his voice barely above a whisper.

Instantly, Jon released his grip and slapped him.

Theon stumbled to the side slightly but managed to remain standing. His cheek burned with the impact but the strike wasn’t as hard as it could have been. Jon had heard from Sansa about how Ramsay had forced Theon to be his pet. She had told him all about Reek and the many ways in which he had been degraded, though he had not considered the full extent of the damage.

“Listen to me, Theon,” Jon spoke firmly but tried to keep his voice even, “I don’t know what’s going through your head right now but you are _Theon Greyjoy_. Not… Not Reek. You’re _Theon_. You’re Balon Greyjoy’s heir. Do you hear me?”

Theon’s gaze seemed less empty and his breathing became more regulated, though he was clearly still very tense, and he was hyperaware of the fact that he had just been struck. Sullenly, he nodded.

Jon had never had to deal with a situation like this before. He wasn’t even sure why he was bothering. Every instinct told him to just leave Theon to whatever he was dealing with, but there was something deeply unsettling about that strange look in his eyes and the way that he had referred to himself. Theon had disturbed him, Jon realised faintly.

As Theon finally came back to himself, he felt an immediate wave of deep, unyielding shame and embarrassment. Jon had seen him like this. Jon had caused him to panic and dissociate. Jon had stood and watched as he faded back into that state of mind. Jon knew that he was broken and weak and so unlike everything that he had once tried so hard to be. There was no way to hide or pretend now, he had been stripped bare and left without any defences. His throat and eyes burned with the effort of repressing tears. Suddenly, he didn’t know where to look.

“I need to leave,” he murmured. He was too overwhelmed, he needed the safety of his bedchambers. He needed to be alone.

If Jon replied, Theon couldn’t hear him. He was already walking back to the castle as quickly as his legs could carry him.

 

\---

 

The next day was easier.

Theon managed to keep himself busy by discussing plans for Yara’s rescue with Daenerys and the Ironborn, though Daenerys had seemed somewhat distracted. She had been tending to Drogon frequently throughout the day and she seemed even more watchful of her dragons than before, though Theon knew this was not the only thing to concern her. She and Tyrion spent many hours holed up together, talking and planning about things than Theon would never be privy to. He still didn’t even know the full details of the war council, though why would he? No one ever told him anything unless they absolutely had to.

Since the incident on the beach, he and Jon had been giving each other a wide berth. Theon had spotted him walking down a hallway with the man that he now knew to be Davos Seaworth. The moment they spotted each other, Theon had turned sharply and hurried away. Similarly, Jon had pretended not to see him when they passed each other near Daenerys’ quarters. They had both been shaken for different reasons, and neither really wanted to endure an awkward confrontation about it.

As the afternoon rolled into early evening, Theon found himself sitting once again in the dining hall that Jon had spurned him from the day before. He liked this room. It was quiet and almost homely; it made him feel safe and at ease. He had already eaten in his chambers and was now simply nursing a large tankard of ale. It was weaker than he would’ve liked, but still, it was pleasant enough. Basking in the enjoyable ambience of the dining hall, Theon sipped his drink and mulled over his rescue plans once again. No matter what happened, he would definitely get Yara back. Even if it meant that he had to give his life to secure her – Yara would rule the Iron Islands, and Euron would die with a sword through his skull.

He was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t even hear Jon’s footsteps this time.

It seemed as though he had only blinked, and then suddenly Jon was standing there in the doorway with a jug in one hand and a cup in the other. Dark eyebrows shot upwards as his eyes locked on Theon. Theon stared back, looking just as surprised as Jon.

Silence hung heavily in the air and Theon prepared himself for whatever insult or instruction that Jon was going to utter. He couldn’t bring himself to feel annoyed about it – not after their rather embarrassing encounter on the beach. It had taken Theon an immense amount of hours to get to sleep after that, and his dreams had been hounded with images of Ramsay Bolton and Robb Stark.

“Turncloak,” Jon said stiffly, mirroring Theon’s tense greeting from before.

Quickly, Theon downed another large mouthful of ale and then rose to his feet. He was about to head towards the doorway, but Jon’s voice stopped him.

“You don’t have to leave because of me,” Jon muttered, voice gruff, “You were here first.”

Confusion flickered across Theon’s face.

_What?_

A moment passed and then slowly, Theon returned to his chair with a frown. He didn’t like this. Why was Jon being civil all of a sudden?

_It’s a trick, it’s a trick, it’s a trick._

“What are you drinking?” Jon asked carefully as he approached the table and set down the jug and tankard. He made sure to keep some distance between Theon and himself as he sat, watching the other man closely.

“I don’t know,” Theon admitted quietly, after a pause. He kept his gaze fixed upon his drink rather than looking over at Jon, “Some form of ale.”

Jon remained silent as he poured a drink from his own jug. The tension in the air was palpable and Theon suddenly found himself unable to sit still. He fidgeted with his fingers and began to trace over the handle of his tankard. One foot nudged nervously against a table leg. He hated feeling like this, and he hated being near Jon.

“About yesterday –”

Theon jumped to his feet before Jon could finish. He didn’t care what Jon said, they were _not_ having this conversation. Not now. Not today. Not ever.

However, before he could reach the door, Jon was there and he gripped his wrist _tight_. Theon’s entire body tensed and his blood turned to ice.

“Are you serious? You’re not leaving. Sit back down, we’re going to talk about this whether you like it or not,” Jon hissed, “After all that you’ve done, you’re lucky I’m being civil with you at all.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong. Still, Theon said nothing. He simply gritted his remaining teeth together and met Jon’s dark glare with his own blue gaze. There was no fear on his face this time, but anxiety curled within his stomach. He didn’t try to tug himself free from Jon’s grip and instead he simply looked toward the chair that he had been sitting in. Jon seemed to understand and he retracted his hand, allowing Theon to return to the seat as instructed. Normally the young king would’ve felt at least a sliver of guilt as he watched Theon rub his sore wrist with a frown, but this was the man that had betrayed Robb, murdered Ser Rodrik, and had forcibly taken control of Winterfell. He deserved no sympathy. 

Theon swallowed two large mouthfuls of ale as Jon sat back down. This was going to be a long and unpleasant evening, so it would be better to be drunk than have to sit and endure it while sober.

“What do you want to know?” he muttered, placing the tankard back on the table with a sigh.

There was a short pause as Jon considered this for a moment. “Well for starters, I want to know what happened yesterday. Why did you start acting like that?” He sounded genuinely confused – perhaps even a little frustrated – but he didn’t sound angry anymore. Accusatory? Yes. But he wasn’t angry or raising his voice.

Still, Theon closed his eyes and repressed a sigh as Jon spoke. This was not a topic that he could talk about with anybody, especially not _Jon Snow_. He quickly reached for the tankard again and swallowed the remains of the ale in one large gulp. He was not ready for this conversation and probably would never be. The fact that Jon was forcing it upon him seemed unfair – cruel, even. He supposed it was just another punishment for what he had done to the Starks, but he had no right to complain. Theon was prepared to face the repercussions of those actions for the rest of his life, and he would never really forgive himself for betraying Robb either. He should’ve died at Robb’s side during the Red Wedding. He should never have gone to Pyke.

“I really can’t talk about that,” Theon replied quietly, still looking at his tankard rather than facing Jon.

“Why not?”

“ _Jon_.” Theon’s voice remained quiet but there was a definite warning in his tone.

Jon’s eyes narrowed at that. “No, I w—”

“ _Why do you even care?”_ Theon snarled suddenly, finally bringing himself to look at Jon again. “Why should you be bothered by what’s going on in my head? I can’t even talk to Yara about it, let alone _you_. Please, just leave it be.”

Jon seemed surprised by the sudden defiance but Theon couldn’t bring himself to care. Perhaps the alcohol was making him bolder than usual, or maybe it was simply the fact that he was talking to Jon Snow? Maybe it was both, maybe it was neither. Either way, Yara would’ve been proud of him, and perhaps even Sansa would’ve been too. Absently, he remembered that he still needed to write to the latter, though it would be best to do that without Jon knowing. Theon’s gaze flickered back to the tankard in front of him and he reached for his own jug so that he could refill it, still frowning.

More silence, save for the sound of Theon taking another large swig of ale. The trick to getting drunk quickly was simply to drink as swiftly as possible, causing the alcohol to rush straight to the head.

“A different question, then,” Jon spoke finally. He sounded tired. “Why did you betray Robb?”

There wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to make that question any easier to stomach.

It was Jon’s turn to drink then, though he continued to watch Theon out of the corner of his eye. Theon had become very still and was frowning into his tankard.

“I wasn’t going to,” Theon began. His shoulders slumped a little. “I didn’t even want to, not really. I loved him.”

“So why did you do it?” Jon pressed on after it appeared that Theon had become lost in thought.

Theon’s eyes snapped back to Jon, tears clear in his soft blue eyes. He wouldn’t let them fall.

“The Starks destroyed my home, killed my brothers, and held me hostage. Do you know what it’s like to live knowing that you could have your head cut off at any second? Do you know what it’s like to grow up being looked down upon and viewed as a savage? Of course you don’t, you’re weren’t a hostage or a foreigner. You were just a bastard.” There was a distinct amount of bitterness as he spoke those last few words and Theon took another swig of his drink. Before Jon could even object, Theon continued, “I could never be a Stark. I wanted to be, but I couldn’t be. Ned could kill me any day, and no one really wanted to know me, besides Robb. I loved him. I loved all of them, but Robb was the best person in my life. I would’ve followed him until the end, I really would’ve.”

He sighed and raked a hand through his brittle hair as he leaned back in his seat.

“I never belonged at Winterfell. When I went back to Pyke I thought I’d finally find some sense of belonging, but my father didn’t even care that I was there. He looked down on me. They all looked down on me.” He pulled a face then; years of pain and frustration breaking through the surface. “I never asked to be taken away, but they all still acted as if I was some kind of weak, foreign outcast because I’d been raised by the Starks. I would never be a Stark, but I’ve always been a Greyjoy. I wanted my father to see that, I suppose. I wanted to belong somewhere.”

The longer Theon spoke, the sadder he sounded.

“I turned on Robb because I wanted to make my father proud and I wanted to feel as though I had a family.” He snorted bitterly. “It wasn’t an easy choice, but I never should’ve done it.” There was a momentary pause and when he spoke again, his voice was soft and sombre. He seemed to be speaking to himself rather than to Jon. “Maybe Robb would still be alive if I’d remained true. I should have been with him. Where was I? I should’ve died with him.”

Finally, Theon lapsed into silence. Jon seemed to be at a loss of what to say, but Theon paid him no mind as he downed another few mouthfuls of ale. The sensation in his fingertips felt faint and a little fuzzy, and his mind was beginning to cloud with the pleasant thrum of alcohol.

In all their years of knowing each other, that was the most that either of them had ever said to each other in a single sitting.

“You weren’t the only one who wasn’t there for him when they should’ve been,” Jon muttered after several seconds of silence. He took a deep drink from his own tankard then. It was much stronger than whatever Theon was drinking, and a ruddy colour had started to form across his cheeks. It was only faint but had they been in better lighting, it would’ve been noticeable enough.

“I’d have given anything to bring him back,” Theon sighed, “He deserved the world.”

“Aye, he did.” Jon’s voice was quiet; sullen. “And yet you still betrayed him.”

Theon didn’t respond. For a while they simply sat and drank, occasionally catching each other’s eye from across the table; Theon was still on edge despite the alcohol dulling his senses somewhat. After their reunion and Jon’s overall attitude towards him, it seemed unlikely that he would be ever be able to relax in his presence. This of course was worsened by the fact that Jon had grabbed and manhandled him multiple times now, and he had even gone as far as to hit him yesterday.

It seemed that Jon was thinking about the same thing.

“I shouldn’t have pulled you around like that. I shouldn’t have hit you either,” Jon muttered with a sigh. “I grabbed you because I was angry, but it wasn’t right. I only hit you because I wanted to snap you out of that… state that that you were in. I didn’t realise until afterwards that I was probably the reason why you were acting like that anyway.”

Theon’s heartrate picked up again. Jon was treading dangerously close to mentioning _him_.

“I’ll never like you, but it brought me no pleasure to see you like that. Ramsay was an evil bastard and I don’t want to be the one to remind you – or anyone – of him.”

_Oh for fucks sake, you stupid bastard._

Theon rolled his eyes and tipped back his drink. He winced slightly at the minor burning sensation in his throat, but he had swallowed harsher drinks in twice the amount before.

“I already told you, I don’t want to talk about it,” Theon said flatly, slamming the now-empty tankard down on the hard table top. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “And don’t call him that. He hates that word.”

Jon stared at him, almost slack-jawed, for a moment.

“ _What?_ ”

Theon remained quiet and looked towards the floor as though he were embarrassed. Mostly he just felt uncomfortable.

“You do know he’s dead, right?” Jon said slowly, still watching Theon with that same expression of pure incredulity upon his face, “He’s been dead a while now.”

Part of Theon wanted to laugh. Part of him wanted to cry. Ramsay wasn’t dead and would never be dead. How could Jon not know that? There wasn’t a person alive who could fight Ramsay and win – not truly. Jon may have defeated him on the battlefield, but Ramsay was too clever and too strong. He wouldn’t really have died; that was just ridiculous. No, he was out there somewhere. Watching, waiting, planning, preparing. He would be back. When he came back, he would want his Reek. No one had ever wanted Theon as much as Ramsay did, nor had anyone loved him as strongly. _Reek, Reek, it rhymes with meek._ Wherever Ramsay was, Theon would come if he was called. After all, where else could he go? He wasn’t welcome at Winterfell and he wasn’t welcome at Pyke. No one at Dragonstone particularly liked him. No, Ramsay was his home, and to Ramsay he would return.

Theon’s eyes had glazed over again, just as they had the night before.

“Ramsay’s dead,” Jon said again, noticing the strange look in Theon’s eyes. Theon simply shook his head slightly, lips curling up in the smallest of smiles. “I saw his corpse for myself. He was ravaged to death by his own dogs.”

Theon continued shaking his head, the strange smile remaining as tears formed at the corners of his eyes.

“Theon, I was there.” Jon grew louder and more agitated the longer that he spoke. “I defeated him and then I captured him. Then Sansa had him taken to the kennels and she released his hounds. They were starving and they ate him, and I saw his corpse afterwards. It was him and there was no way he could still be alive after that. Ramsay Bolton is _dead.”_

“It’s a trick,” Theon whispered shakily, “You don’t know him like I do.”

Jon sighed loudly in exasperation.

“No, you’re right. I didn’t know him like you did. But Sansa did. Sansa killed him and watched him die, and she was there when we disposed of the body. I understand if you don’t trust me, but can you trust Sansa?”

Theon seemed to spark a little at that. The strange smile on his lips had faded, replaced with a look of confusion. A few tears had finally escaped from behind his lashes, and they rolled freely down his cheeks. It was then that Jon noticed he was shaking. Bizarrely, he felt the urge to get up and pull Theon into a hug, but it was an urge that he repressed. Faintly, he wondered how long it had been since Theon had been hugged by anyone at all.

“Sansa?” Theon echoed quietly.

“Yes, Sansa.” Jon tried to sound gentle and reassuring, though it felt somewhat awkward, considering who he was addressing. “Sansa made sure he was dead.”

Theon gave a small nod as he considered Jon’s words. Sansa knew Ramsay. Sansa knew his tricks, his games, his strength, his power. If she said that Ramsay was dead…

Theon’s heart very nearly stopped in his chest.

“Listen,” Jon sighed, “You can write to her if you like, I’m sure she’ll tell you what I just have. I swear to you, he’s gone.”

“I didn’t think you would want me to talk to her. I wanted to write to her yesterday but I didn’t get around to it.”

Speaking about Sansa seemed to have distracted him for the moment and he seemed a little less shaky, for now. Jon noticed this immediately and tried to latch onto it.

“Send her a raven, I’m sure she would be very happy to hear from you,” he replied softly, hoping to bring Theon back away from any thoughts of Ramsay – though perhaps Sansa wasn’t exactly the best topic for that.

Theon nodded slowly, raising one hand to wipe the tears from his face. He had stopped crying almost as quickly as he had started, but he still appeared to be very uncomfortable and unhappy; he felt absolutely nauseous. Ramsay wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be dead. Jon must have been wrong about Sansa, or maybe Sansa was wrong about Ramsay? Theon resolved to speak to her as soon as he got the chance, though the prospect seemed daunting now.

“Does she ever speak about me?” Theon asked.

“She did in the beginning. She always spoke very highly of you, in fact.” For the first time that evening, Jon Snow actually grinned. “Truth be told, she would’ve probably wanted my head on a spike if she’d seen how I was with you yesterday.”

It was Theon’s turn to smile then. He reached for his jug of ale and poured the last of it into his tankard, before raising it to his lips and drinking deeply. 

“I used to think that I was going to marry her,” Theon murmured softly. “It was stupid but it’s what I thought.”

“I would’ve thought that you’d have wanted to marry Robb,” Jon said before he could stop himself. There was no malice in his words; no attempt at a cruel jape. It was simply what he thought.

Immediately embarrassed about having said such a thing, Jon grabbed his drink and took a swig so that he wouldn’t have to continue speaking. To his surprise, however, Theon gave a snort of laughter. His eyes creased at the corners and a genuine, if somewhat bittersweet, smile formed on his lips.

“I never said that Sansa was the one I was attracted to. I just figured that Ned would have me marry her if he ever wanted to make a real son of me,” Theon mused, swirling the drink around his mug, “I’d actually forgotten about that until now.” He tipped back the tankard and finished the entirety of the ale in two gulps. Jon downed his own drink in response. “Do you know what I always wish I had?” Theon asked suddenly, inspecting the tankard as if it held some hidden secret.

“What?”

“A direwolf. Well, I think a kraken would be better, but no one has a pet kraken.” Theon sighed and shifted in his seat so that he could fold his arms on the table and rest his head upon them. “That day in the woods when we found those pups. Everyone got one besides me. I didn’t care so much at the time, but I like animals and it would’ve been nice to have a wolf. Have I ever told you about my old horse, Smiler? Such a good horse.”

Jon found himself grinning as he realised that Theon was drunk. He looked rather sweet, sprawled against the table and chattering about animals like that. Despite their shared upbringing, they had never shared any moments like this before. It was almost nice.

“What would you have called your direwolf?”

Theon considered this seriously, lazily reaching out to tap his fingers against his empty jug as he mulled over the question.

“Sunset,” he decided at last, “Because of the Sunset Sea, but also just because it sounds nice.”

“I half expected you to say Ironborn,” Jon smiled, pouring himself some more alcohol.

“A direwolf called Ironborn?” Theon wrinkled his nose. “If that isn’t an allegory for my life, I don’t know what is.”

Jon wasn’t sure whether that remark was supposed to be humorous or not, though Theon looked as if he wasn’t quite sure himself. Seeing Jon raise his cup to his lips, Theon sat up a little and watched him.

“What is that?” he asked.

“Spiced rum. Do you want some?”

Theon gave a nod. Jon rose from his chair and moved closer to where Theon was sitting, jug in hand. He leaned over and poured some into Theon’s empty tankard and then proceeded to sit down beside him rather than migrating back to his original seat. Theon didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he sat up straight and immediately swallowed a large mouthful of the rum. He coughed a little as it went down – it had been a while since he had touched proper liquor. Jon smiled.

“Well that’s definitely better than the piss I was drinking,” Theon muttered. After a brief pause, he added, “Thank you.”

Had it not been for the added thanks, Jon would’ve sworn that he was speaking to the same Theon that he had once known.

Jon’s deep brown eyes skimmed over the man beside him, taking in every inch of his new appearance. He was certainly skinnier than he had been the last time they had seen each other, and his cheekbones were far more prominent as a result. His hair was shaggy, brittle, and much lighter in hue, lined with many flecks of white and grey; a direct result of being subject to so much stress and torture. Although Theon was completely covered in clothing from the neck downward, Jon knew that he must have quite the selection of scars. He had already seen the state of his hands, and Theon’s permanent limp implied that his feet were in a similar condition.

They had all been through their own trials and tribulations since leaving Winterfell, but as Jon studied his childhood foe, he could see that no one wore their scars as openly as Theon did.

Theon was resting on the table again, using his arms as a pillow. Watchful blue eyes remained trained on Jon, but he no longer seemed as fearful of him. He looked content. Drunk – _definitely_ drunk – but content all the same. Before he even knew what he was doing, Jon reached out and gently carded his gloved fingers through Theon’s hair. He tensed ever-so-slightly at the initial touch, but gradually relaxed and allowed Jon to continue stroking his hair without a word.

It had been years since anyone had touched him so softly. In fact, it was Ramsay that had last touched his hair this gently. Theon’s eyes slid shut, reliving the memories of kneeling before his master as he was rewarded for good behaviour. It was comforting. It was safe. He melted into Jon’s touch, embracing the familiar warmth and security that came with having his hair petted in such a manner.

For a while, they made idle chitchat, occasionally reminiscing over how they used to compete for Robb’s attention during their years in Winterfell. Theon told Jon about Kyra, and Jon told Theon about Ygritte. Strangely, Theon offered no snide laughter or barbed remarks in response to Jon telling him about that evening in the cave, and there was no hint of the infuriating smirk that he used to wear. Jon wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it. He had found Theon to be arrogant and irritating in the past, and perhaps he would’ve welcomed these changes if things had been different, but mostly it just felt odd to witness Theon behaving in a manner that was so far away from what Jon expected from him.

Theon’s replies grew quieter and less frequent as time went by. Jon wasn’t sure whether this was because he was tired or because his mind had taken him somewhere else. Perhaps it was both? He didn’t want to ask.

“Theon?” Jon murmured softly, “Don’t fall asleep here.”

Theon reopened his eyes as Jon spoke, and he offered him the small quirk of a smile.

“I’m drunk.”

“I’m not particularly sober myself. We should get back to our chambers while we still know how to walk,” Jon replied with a sigh, retracting his hand from Theon’s hair.

Neither of them were sure how late it was now, though it was definitely nightfall. Jon finished the rest of the rum by himself (Theon had no intention of lifting his head from the table any time soon), though his throat screamed in protest and his mind began to spin unpleasantly. Bad lighting and uncertain vision were never a good combination, but there was no undoing it now. Jon stood and stretched briefly before turning his attention back to Theon, who still hadn’t moved from where he sat slumped against the table.

“Theon?”

“Hmm?”

“You can’t sleep here, we need to go back to our chambers.”

“Hmm.”

“ _Theon!_ ”

Theon’s eyes opened then, though it took a moment for him to adjust to the darkness of the room. It was nearly as dark as the Dreadfort dungeon, if such a thing were possible. Dragonstone was far too dark. The alcohol certainly hadn’t helped, however, and he was dreading the possibility of having to actually raise his head. Why wasn’t Jon touching his hair anymore? He liked having his hair played with. It meant he had done something good ( _Good Reek, loyal Reek_ ). Of course, he also hadn’t been touched softly by anyone in a very long time. Sometimes he preferred it that way; he hated what his body had become. Most of the time he just wished for someone speak to him with understanding and wrap him up in a hug.

Jon Snow was standing right in front of him, looking down with that perpetual pout and those soulful puppy dog eyes.

“Thank you for being nice to me,” Theon mumbled lamely as he reached a hand out towards Jon. A flicker of confusion rippled over Jon’s features, but he grasped Theon’s hand in his own after a moment’s pause. “No one’s ever nice to me anymore,” Theon whispered, mostly to himself, “I know I deserve it though.”

Drowned God. If he remembered those words tomorrow, Theon was going to be utterly mortified.

Jon remained silent as he helped pull Theon to his feet. When Theon stumbled, Jon was there to catch him, his large hands immediately coming to grip onto the other man’s biceps to help stabilise him. Their eyes met for a moment, and Jon slowly retracted his hands.

“You good?” he asked softly, noticing the way that Theon appeared to sway slightly despite standing still. Absently, he realised that it could have been his vision playing tricks on him, as his eyesight was currently a little shaky.

Theon snorted. “Am I ever?” he muttered, mostly to himself.

They forgot about the jugs and tankards that remained resting atop the dining table as the pair of them made their way towards the door. Both of them attempted to walk through the doorway at the same time, each seeming just as confused as the other when they collided instead.

“After you, my King,” Theon drawled, stepping aside and gesturing widely for Jon to go first.

Jon huffed a small bark of laughter, his features breaking into a large grin of amusement. He walked through the stone arch of the doorway and glanced behind him to make sure that Theon followed, which of course he did. The two fell into step beside one another as they made their way through the darkened spirals of Dragonstone’s hallways and staircases, trading the occasional quip or comment as they walked. It reminded them both of their days at Winterfell, staggering around in the dark after a big feast or celebration, though they were only together if Robb was there too. Ned Stark’s perfect heir could not be seen to get too drunk at events, but people paid little mind to a sullen bastard or an Ironborn hostage.

As they reached a narrow set of stairs, Theon lost his footing and slipped backwards, but Jon moved in a heartbeat to catch him.

“I’m going to have to walk you all the way back to your chambers, aren’t I?” Jon murmured with a faint note of amusement. His head was spinning but he had always been good at holding his alcohol.

“I can manage.”

“You can barely walk straight!”

“I’ll be _fine_ ,” Theon whined, pushing himself out of Jon’s arms and continuing up the stairs with Jon following close behind.

Despite the initial protest, Theon made no further complaints or objections when Jon proceeded to escort him all the way back to his chambers, despite Jon’s own quarters residing in a completely different part of the castle. Robb had done the same for both of them in the past when they hadn’t been sober enough to be trusted with reaching their chambers safely.

Clumsily, Theon opened the door and stumbled into the room. Jon remained in the doorway and blearily watched as Theon, who had apparently forgotten about his presence, made his way to the bed and sat down to kick off his boots with apparent difficulty. It took a few attempts but he managed in the end, mumbling to himself the entire time.

“I’m going to leave now,” Jon called quietly from where he stood against the doorway.

Theon slumped down on his bed, too drunk and tired to take off any of his clothes. He didn’t even remove his gloves. Sighing, Jon closed the door and made his way over to the bed. A fond smile played upon his lips and he knelt by the bed, folding his arms upon the mattress.

“Theon, did you hear me? I’m going to bed now. Are you going to be alright?” he murmured.

Theon’s eyes opened lazily – he hadn’t even recalled closing them – and he tilted his head to look at Jon. Faintly, Jon found himself becoming aware of the handsome curve of Theon’s jawline. He had always had good bone structure; all smooth angular lines and high cheekbones (No one had better cheekbones than a Tully, of course, but Theon was close enough). Before he realised he could stop himself, Jon reached out and gingerly traced his fingers over Theon’s jawline.

“I’ll be fine,” Theon whispered, melting into the touch. His eyes narrowed a fraction as Jon’s fingers moved down to trace gentle patterns along the pale expanse of his throat, breath hitching slightly at the pleasant sensation it caused.

Again, Theon’s eyes slid shut. Jon simply knelt there and watched him for a few moments, maintaining his gentle motions until he heard a change in Theon’s breathing.

“Goodnight, Theon,” he said softly as Theon drifted off into sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about the ending, I wasn't sure where to stop it ;u; 
> 
> Feel free to leave comments! I love reading what everyone has to say, and don't hesitate to point out any typos or anything so that I can fix them. 
> 
> Also: you can find me on tumblr at greyjoysails as well, so if you ever wanna talk about Theon or offer any prompts/requests, or even just have a talk, don't hesitate to hit me up c:


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